The Shelter
by Flicker Red
Summary: What would happen if Brendan Brady was released from jail, only to be told the worst news he could ever possibly receive? (Warning: Character death. Just wanted to experiment with a different course of events in which Ste and Brendan do not get a happily ever after.)


**The Shelter**

Some people say that when you die your soul goes to heaven. They believe that ever-lasting life can be yours if you pay for your sins; pay back every tiny speck of despair you've caused others with your own blood, sweat and tears, to show God how truly sorry you are. Some people say that there is no sin great enough that God cannot forgive...but you know that's not true. You know that there are some sins so great that even the all mighty will turn his back, forsake you, and you realize with horrific clarity that that is exactly what has happened to you. Your sins were too great, and the debt you paid -30 years in prison serving time for murders that you did and did not commit- was not enough to give back what was owed. So God had to take something that was worth more to you than anything. Take something so precious, so important that it may as well have been the air you breathed...

God took him.

The moment you heard the news the oxygen felt like it was being forced from deepest depths of your lungs.

There was silence on the phone after the words were uttered.

Cheryl had been living in Ireland ever since you went into prison, as well as the years following your release. After you got out and had tasted your first breath of freedom, she'd begged you to come home. She assured you that you could rent a house in Dublin and leave the memories of Hollyoaks - _that God-forsaken town –_ behind... but you couldn't. You tried, but something kept holding you back. She asked you countless times if _he _was the reason you wouldn't leave and you denied it every time, but he was. It was always about him all along.

"Babe," Cheryl's soft voice brings you back into the present, her Northern Irish accent flecked with the tiniest hint of Southern after years of living there, "Brendan, are you OK?"

"No," You mumble, shaking your head, "no, you're wrong. It can't be, they got the wrong man. It can't be St-"

You run out of breath. You can't say the name. Cheryl is silent.

"I wasn't sure if you knew," she says, and you can hear the quiver in her voice, "it's been so long since you two last spoke, I just thought..."

You close your eyes. Two years, three months, six days. The time will be forever stamped into your brain; burnt there for eternity and no amount of mental cleansing or therapy will remove it now. You're almost sixty-five years old, which would make him almost fifty-five...too young to die.

"No," you state, so matter-of-fact that you almost believe it. You're unable to keep the tremor of doubt from your voice, "you're wrong, you've got to be."

"Sweetheart..."

You feel your heart racing in your chest, before plummeting down into your stomach. You're numb all over, arms and legs tingling as the weight of it sinks in. You wonder if receiving the news of his passing is a feeling similar to death itself. The feeling of everything slowly slipping away.

It's been years since you last saw him, but you can still see his face clearly in your mind's eye. It was a face that got you through many nights in prison, hoping to see it once again. That defiant, pouting expression that always seemed to look at you with disdain, yet when he was happy with you, was comparable with nothing else you'd ever seen. Nobody else had the power to make you feel so..._alive. _

You think back to the promise you made when you last saw him, the day he sat by your bedside and leaned in so close that you could smell the faint musk of his aftershave. You told him that you were never going to feel any differently about him...it was a promise you kept.

Only when you got out of prison did Cheryl break it to you that Steven had moved on and found someone else. The news devastated you, but it did not surprise you. A man like Steven was never going to wait around forever; you knew it when you stood on that balcony and you knew it when you entered through the gates of the prison. You would never be able to keep him but you didn't care, as long as he was happy. As long as you did the right thing.

You breathe in for a moment, as if inhaling the information, and you feel the instant when your emotions cut off like a chord being snapped from the inside. The moment when the pain becomes so much that it's almost excruciating; the agony of it too much for one person to take. You think that this kind of suffering is a fate worse than death...

You wonder if that's the point.

Cheryl grows worried when you don't respond, but all you can hear of her voice is a muffled cacophony of white noise. At one point she becomes so worried she puts Nate on the phone to see if he can rouse you, but all you keep hearing are the words going round and round in your head, like a broken record about to spin off the needle. _Steven is dead._

Cheryl drags the phone back to her mouth and speaks your name, but you can barely hear the words. Your eyes are dry, like glass, and you wait for the tears to come but they never do. Some emotions are too thick for tears to penetrate. When you finally speak, the thickness in your throat almost stops the words from coming.

"How?" You whisper, voice a raw scratch.

"Brend-"

"_How?"_ You clench your eyes shut, willing her not to say your name in that pitying tone, because the sound might be enough to break you.

There's silence for a moment as she contemplates telling you. You wonder if she's surprised by your reaction._ It's been so long_, she said, and it makes you wonder if she thought that this would somehow ease the pain. That perhaps, ridiculous as it sounds, you may have somehow managed to 'get over' him. That perhaps it wouldn't bring your whole World tumbling down. You wonder how she could be so horribly naïve.

"I-" she pauses, "I'm not sure of the details."

She's being evasive and it irritates you. You know that her and Steven hadn't spoken regularly ever since you went to prison, but you knew they kept in touch. She knew where he lived, his address, his phone number...you were sure she knew how he'd...

"Tell me what you know," you reply.

"I think..." She pauses.

"Chez..."

"I'm sorry, love, I really thought you knew."

"Knew what?" You can feel your teeth gritting. What hasn't she told you? "Knew what!"

"Ste, he's...he was depressed, love, he had problems, y'know?"

"What? What do you mean?" You ask, unable to hide your surprise, "When was this? How long ago?"

"After you were taken in," she whispers, "he had problems. Addictions."

_Overdose_.

"He...he overdosed?" You ask, voice a shadow of the firm growl you often used, "is that what happened?"

"No, Brendan," she said softly, "when you went into prison...he was in a dark place. A very dark place, love. You can't just abuse yourself like that and have it not leave any damage..."

"What do you mean?" You ask, "what damage?"

"To his heart," she says, and it comes out in a rush. As if she didn't want to tell you but her resolve broke.

It was his heart.

"...heart attack?" You whisper, as if all becoming too clear, "he died of a heart attack?"

"I'm so sorry..."

You shake your head, bottom lip quivering, and you brush your fingers back through your hair as you sit at the kitchen table of your run-down apartment. Your whole body feels like it's buckling under the weight of this revelation. You were told he was happy.

"No," You say, and you barely recognise the sound of your own voice; so small and unfamiliar that it frightens you, "This can't be happening..."

"I'm sorry," Cheryl breathes, and you can hear her muffled sobs as she tries to stifle them behind her hand, "I wish there was something I could do."

You hang up. You can't listen anymore, not the way your head is. You feel numb, as if the circulation has been cut off from your entire body. In one moment, life feels like it has no purpose anymore. Your insides feel cold, hollow, and the knot in your stomach is unmovable.

_Dead._

He's dead and he's not coming back. Steven..._your_ Steven.

The emptiness this brings, even after all these years, makes you want to curl up and die. You can't move. You try to let the knowledge sink in, but it doesn't and you go through the rest of your day in a daze. You go shopping, pick up some magazines and some milk -random items that you have no need or desire for- then you sit down and eat dinner alone at the table. You don't think, you don't feel, you just _do. _Only in the evening, as darkness descends through the apartment and you don't bother turning on the lights, do you begin to register what's happened.

You get up, round the table and stub your toe on the edge of one of its wooden legs. _Fuck, _you hiss, then let out a sharp bark and in that moment it feels like every emotion unleashes within you at once -like a wind-up toy turned to its tightest degree- and you snap.

You scream out a string of words, harsh and raw in your throat, unaware of what it is you're even screaming at or what use it will do. Then you stand to your feet in one quick motion and stumble through the kitchen, reaching out one hand to grab onto the nearest object you can find and hurl it across the room. The crash sends a pulse through your body, makes you feel alive for a moment, so you reach out and grab a bottle of age-old whiskey perched on the black marble counter and hurl it to the floor.

In a matter of moments, your entire apartment is destroyed and when there's nothing left to throw the only thing that fills the silence is the sound of your rabid screams as you shout at the sky. Only in the silence can you hear or understand what you're saying. You realise you're shouting to God.

"_Why him?!" _You shout until it feels like your throat is bleeding, "_WHY?"_

Your whole body feels electric, as if you can't control it, and the grief pours down your weather-beaten face as tears stain the apples of your cheeks. When you're done destroying the room and all that's left is silence, you quietly sit back down at the small, wooden table in your kitchen and stare at the wall. Eerily composed.

If you ever had a heart, it's broken now.

~#~#~#~#~

You look up at the small, stone structure situated beyond the graveyard. There's something chilling about the scene set out before you; hundreds of lop-sided stones, criss-crossing in a disturbing pattern throughout a large patch of flowery grassland. Your eyes dance across the scene, taking in each tomb with an icy gaze. Some of the stones look old, possibly hundreds of years, whilst others appear to be brand new. For a moment you wonder what grave is his, but you push the thought from your mind. You don't even want to think about it. You're only here to say your goodbyes, to see him one last time, but your mind is making it hard by refusing to accept what's going on. It all seems like a dream. No, a nightmare.

You watch as dozens of people pile into the small, stone church in the middle of the graveyard and

you wait until the last person enters before making your way down the pathway towards the building. You don't know how you're holding yourself together, but with every step closer you feel yourself unravelling. Your palms are sweating, heart racing, and part of you is wondering if you're entertaining a fantasy. Do you really believe he's dead? Are you here because you believe that when you place your fingers on the brass handle and push open the mahogany doors that he will be there, open armed, to greet you?

You're an old fool.

You reach the door and with one shaky, weather-beaten hand you push it open. Immediately the musky smell of dust overwhelms you, and you are transported back to your childhood where regular church attendance was a must in your house. You remember that smell, still as familiar as ever, and with frantic eyes you stare up between rows of pews that lead up to a light, oak casket at the front.

You stop breathing when you see it, then quickly tear your eyes away. You can't look.

A few people peer over their shoulders to stare at the stranger who has just arrived, but they don't recognise your face and you don't recognise theirs.

Your eyes flash across the small interior of the Church, which is dark and decorated in sinister colours of deep browns and a blood-red carpet. The vision of it disturbs your senses and you immediately take a seat at the back to calm your nerves. You try to stay in the shadows, out of sight and away from the prying eyes of those who may recognise you. You wonder if anyone here would. Amy, the mother of his children, she must be here and you want to avoid her at all costs. You have no doubt that, despite the years that have passed, she would recognise you no matter wonder what she looks like now, lines on her once smooth face and grey in her hair, but you can't make her out in the crowd. You imagine she's at the front where she should be, along with...

You close your eyes when you think of them. Two fresh-faced children with blonde hair and blue eyes, that's how you remember them. Now they would be older and you doubt you would recognise them, even if they were standing in front of you now.

You watch with wide eyes as the organ plays and the Minister slowly steps up to the front of the room, then makes his way around to stand behind a dark, wooden pulpit. He clears his throat into the microphone and the soft chatter of the congregation falls into a respectful silence.. You feel your body tremble, legs shaking against the red velvet of the seat, and your blood runs cold. Once again you ask yourself if this is really happening, but as the greying, bearded man at the front begins to speak you realize this is not a nightmare at all. This is real.

As the Minister speaks, you feel a chill run through your veins and into your core. Your teeth begin to chatter and you feel your body going into shock. You try to maintain an aloofness, icy eyes fixed to the front, but you find the mask slipping as the Minister continues to speak. Only someone who truly knew you would ever be able to tell though..._he_ would be able to tell. You have no doubt about it. Steven could always see right through you.

You close your eyes and take in the words of the Minister as he discusses a life that _'meant so much to many of you here today'. _You want to yell out that those words don't even touch the true level of what Steven Hay meant to you. How he changed your life and made you believe that you could be a better man. You wish you could have been that man for him, but you couldn't. He was always better off without you.

However, that's not to say you didn't try...

That fateful day in the hospital was not the last time you set eyes on him.

When you got out of prison and heard the news that he had moved on, you tried to do what was best for him and let him enjoy his new life...but you were not that strong. You had to see him. You had to _know_ that what you did was right, so you asked Cheryl to tell you where he lived and she informed you that he'd moved away to a farmhouse out in the middle of the country. You remember smirking at the image of Steven in his tracksuit, feeding chickens and milking cows for a living.

You remember how you waited for a few days, tried to contemplate if it was the right decision, but after a while you couldn't contain your curiosity and you got into your car drove out to see him. When you finally reached his home, out in the middle of nowhere, you were shocked at what you saw.

It was a house straight out of a child's fairytale.

A great, overwhelming white structure with a sumptuous garden and foliage surrounding the land. You turned off the engine and sat, dumbstruck, looking at the sight before you. It was so idyllic it made your stomach churn and you tried to suppress the anger growing inside you. It was _too _perfect. The thought that you could even try to compete with it was laughable.

The grounds appeared to be empty as you looked out behind the glare of the scratched windscreen of your car. You placed your hands on the wheel, clenched tight, and tried to listen for any signs of life. Just when you thought they were out, you heard the sound of laughter coming from somewhere. You couldn't see anything at first, but as you squinted against the harsh glare of the sun you eventually made out figures rounding the corner of the house. You didn't have to see their faces to tell that one of those figures was Steven. You could tell by the fog horn laugh bombarding your ears, sifting through the glass of your car windows.

The sound made your heart ache with need.

When he eventually came into view, you felt your body boil hot with a rush of blood. Seeing him after so long was so tantalising, so exciting, that you had to stop yourself from tearing off your seatbelt and running to him. You watched him carefully, every movement hypnotic, as he walked through the grass dressed in a tight, form-fitting white t-shirt and jeans. He looked as good as you remember, as if time hadn't touched him in the thirty years that had passed.

He didn't even notice your car on his driveway; which was parked behind two others amongst a thick overhang of trees. In fact, his attention was too preoccupied with the figure standing in front of him. You turned your gaze in the direction he was looking and saw a man dressed in a soft, cashmere jumper and loose-fitting trousers. He was chiselled and handsome in that tanned, obvious way, and the look he was giving Steven made your stomach drop. You recognised that look, that same adoring gaze, because it was the same way you used to look at him when he belonged to you.

You gripped the wheel tighter as you watched the man walk over and take Steven in his arms, kiss his cheek, hold his waist. You wanted to walk over and tear off his hands, destroy them so he could never touch what was yours again.

Steven threw his head back and laughed, that same obnoxious honk that used to drive you crazy.

You continued to watch with lowered, hooded eyes, unable to tear your gaze away despite the crushing pain it caused, as two other figures rounded the corner of the house. Your mouth fell open at the sight, because they were unmistakable...

Leah had grown beautifully and was wearing a white, Summer dress with a frilled edge. She was a woman, probably in her thirties, and the thought that she was no longer that bubbly, bubblegum girl you once knew filled your heart with sadness. She looked exactly like her mother. Lucas, on the other hand, was the picture of his dad. It took your breath away, the similarities between them, and when you looked at him you were transported back to the days when you and Steven were both young and free and _together_. You remember how you joked and promised to make him an _honest man_, but now it was too late. Somebody else had swooped in and stolen this life from you. The life you could have had...

It was Lucas that eventually spotted you, parked behind the mini-van and silver BMW in the driveway. He pointed out with one long finger right at you, and you remember panic seizing your insides as the rest of them turned to look in your direction. By that point it was too late to do anything.

You watched as Steven slowly turned his head, blue eyes scanning the scene, until eventually they made contact with you. You saw him clearly then, without movement or distraction, and you could see the slight greying of his hair and the fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He was in his forties, but he still looked young and fresh, healthy and happy. You, on the other hand, were more salt than pepper and scruffy around the edges. Jail had made the lines on your face harsh and your eyes were more grey than blue, having seen too much in your time there, and your moustache had long since turned into a beard.

However, the look of absolute shock on his paling face told you that he recognised you, despite the years that had passed. His mouth was wide with shock and his body was still, eyes locked solely on yours. The air between you, even through the steel and glass of the car, was thick enough to cut down the middle. You swear you could smell him, the same faint aroma of cheap aftershave and Dove soap. You saw his lips move, a tiny whisper, and just as he was about to take a step forward, your brain clicked into gear.

In an instant you switched on the engine, reversed back into a carefully made flowerbed, and sped out of his garden in less than a minute. Your heart was racing, but you couldn't help but glimpse in the rear view mirror as you departed. His mouth was opened, eyebrows clenched together in confusion, as if he didn't quite believe what he'd just seen, and finally you saw his boyfriend -husband- rush over to him and press a hand to his shoulder in comfort.

The sight sent a rush of anger through you.

When you finally got far enough away, you pulled up at the side of the road, turned off the engine and set your head against the wheel. Every part of your body was aching with need, begging for release, and you tried to remember the words of your anger therapist in prison. _Count to ten, breathe in, count to ten, breathe out. _You tried, mouthed the numbers, but when you reached _five_ everything within you broke and you bared your teeth in an unholy yell. You banged the wheel with your fists, clasped the plastic in your hands then set your head back on it, breaths heavy and laboured.

If there was ever any doubt that you did the right thing, that maybe he wasn't better off without you, it was erased in that moment. Steven was happy, you were sure of it, and despite the low thrum of your pained heartbeat you knew in that moment that you would never go to see him again. If you were right and he did recognise you, then he would figure out a way to find you. If he did not, then you would take the hint.

You never heard from him again.

You shake your head, releasing the memories, then focus your attention to the front of the room, where the Minister continues to utter words that seem perpetually underwhelming. Nothing he says can possibly come close to describing Steven, or what kind of a man he was, or what kind of a man he made you feel like. You close your eyes, try to soak in every word, and after a while you hear the Minister saying that there will be a reading from a man called Ryan Tate. You don't have to look to know that it's Steven's lover, and you feel the hairs on your arms rise as you watch the man stand to his feet and head towards the pulpit.

His white-flecked hair is carefully styled and you can see his sculpted body beneath his neatly pressed, black suit. He's a good-looking man, even you can admit it, and you can tell that the nose on his tanned face had been broken at some point in his life- something which only seemed to emphasise his vulnerability.

He looked...nice. Like a nice guy. You're glad of that.

His eyes are red-rimmed as he approaches the pulpit and stands, as if in a daze, looking out over the crowd. As he begins to read, you feel your eyes prick with heat as a lump forms in your throat. You can't help but think of Steven when you look at him, of the life you both could have had, and only when you think of this do you feel the need to flee this place. You don't know how much longer you can hold it together.

Just as you're about to stand up and leave, the man opens his mouth, and begins to speak out with a raspy, tear-choked Manchurian accent. You close your eyes and listen to the words.

"_There are no words to describe exactly what Ste Hay meant to me..."_

Steven, you correct. His name is Steven.

"_He made me feel like anything was possible. That I could do anything. He was an amazing Father, an amazing person, and I will feel his loss every day of my life..."_

You shake your head. No matter how much time or how many years he spent with Steven, you know his pain is nothing compared to yours. This deep, hot knife stabbed into your heart will never be removed. You loved him intensely, more than any man ever could. You were prepared to die for him, to _kill_ for him. Would this man have done that? This _Ryan?_ Would he -could he- have looked somebody in the eyes and taken their life, all for the man he loved? Looking at him now, you doubt he would be capable. Just as you thought, he's a nice guy...nothing like you.

"_When I first met Steven, he thought he didn't deserve happiness...he'd experienced more than any man I'd ever met. But as we spent more time together, I could feel the walls he'd built around himself lifting..."_

You opened your eyes and looked to the front as the man stood, spilling out indirect comments about you and what you put his lover through. You know it's about you, there's no doubt about it, and it makes your blood boil. His words burn into your mind...how could Steven think he didn't deserve happiness? Was it because of you and what you'd done? The thought kills you, makes your bones ache, but on the outside you remain composed. You try to look like nothing more than an acquaintance, wishing to pay his final respects.

"..._and we spent many happy years together. Me, Ste and his two children, Leah and Lucas, whom I have grown to think of as my own over the years..."_

Your eyes widen. Are they here, Leah and Lucas? Would they remember you? You look up at the front pews, try to make out familiar blonde hair, but you can't see anything.

You feel your body tense with each word this man says. He has memories you will never have of Steven and his children, but likewise you have memories he can never touch, and you've locked them away in the deepest parts of your mind where you frequently re-visit them. Helping Leah with her school project, that little blonde princess who had you wrapped around her finger, and babysitting her and Lucas while Ste was out. All of these moments that made even a man like you, Brendan fucking Brady, act like a sentimental fool. Before you were left with nothing, you remember having everything. You clench your eyes shut.

"_Ste always had a way of making me see the bright side of any situation. If I ever had stresses at work or needed comfort, he would always find a way to make me feel better..."_

You wonder if Steven ever made him feel better in the way he made _you_ feel better.

You remember cold, windy nights, tossing and turning from the nightmares that never seemed to end. Nightmares where your Father had open and easy access to your innermost fears and there never seemed to be a way out of the terror. You would wake up to the sensation of his lips on your neck, his eyes sparkling under the speckle of moonlight filtering through the curtains, and you would pull him to you, roll over on top of him so that your sweat-soaked body could feel him under you, and you would push yourself deep inside of him until you were lost in his essence. He was the only thing that could make you forget. Did Steven do that for _him_? Did he let this stranger use his body as a temple; as an escape?

"_I remember there would be days when I'd come home and Ste would be standing there, laughing and holding up a cake with the icing dripping off the sides & my name squiggled over the top. He'd tell me Leah and Lucas made it for me, but I knew it was his idea...he was always thoughtful like that."_

Your heart feels like it's dropping into your stomach. You remember standing baking a cake with Leah, waiting for Steven to come home, singing some stupid song to her as he walked in through the front door to greet you. You remember it like it was yesterday, the memory so perfectly preserved in your mind. Time has not touched it like it has touched you. For a moment you wonder if he ever thought of you in those moments, when he was recreating memories you both shared, with another man...you want to believe he did.

"_Steven and I shared many happy years together..."_

You watch the man as his voice begins to break. You feel for him in that moment, something you never thought you'd do, because you realize that he has lost something too. It may not be a shadow of what you feel, but it's something. He loved Steven, you can tell, and for that he deserved him. He also gave him what you couldn't, stability and a future. All this man gave Steven was good, when all you could give him destroyed him.

You wonder, if it was you, if you could be so brave as to stand up and talk to a crowd of this size about what Steven meant to you. You wonder if you could have that courage. You don't think you could. Perhaps that's why you know that Steven meant more to you than to this man at the front...if it were up to you to read out what he meant to you, you would crumble at the first word. You're sure you would die. You feel like you are dying right now.

"_But the one thing..." _His voice shakes. You face out into the distance, beyond his frame, at the white-washed wall behind him. You try to cut the overwhelming swell of emotion off, but it creeps in like a tidal wave that you can't stop, "_I will remember about Ste, more than anything, is his strength. He told me once that I saved him..." _You feel something trail down your cheek and you can feel the red sting in your eyes "..._ but it was him that saved me."_

You quickly stand to your feet and push your way out of the building. You don't look back to see who notices.

~#~#~#~#~

You arrive home and set yourself down into the deep, soft imprint of your couch. You look around at the boring, beige coloured décor that you hadn't bothered to change since you moved in and you try to get your head around what's just happened and where you've just been. The sight of the pale, wooden coffin at the front of the church still haunts you, as does the sight of Ryan -his lover- speaking behind an altar about how much the love of your life meant to him.

...only he's not yours. Not anymore. He hasn't been yours for years.

You feel a vibration in your pocket and you pull out your slim, onyx black phone. The screen flashes with the name '_Cheryl_' and you feel like declining, but you decide to answer. You need to hear her voice, just to remind yourself that the World outside this nightmare still exists.

"Hello? Brendan?" She asks, as if refusing to believe it's you, "Is that you?"

"Yes," you croak, feeling like you haven't used your voice in an eternity, "it's me."

"Thank God," you hear her whisper, barely high enough for you to hear, "I thought you might have done something stupid..."

You can imagine her now, pacing one of the stone-floored rooms of her castle in Ireland. She probably imagined you dead, hanging in your room with eyes bulging and face purple with blood. You'd be lying if you said the thought hadn't crossed your mind, but you couldn't do that. Not now that you and your kids are getting along, now that they're both men and have families of their own. Still, you can't get Steven from your mind. Regret sits in your gut like a heavy, stone weight and makes you feel like throwing up.

"I'm fine, Chez," you lie, "really."

There's silence on the phone, a faint crackle as she breathes. Then finally, she whispers,

"...don't lie, Brendan."

You let out a breath of air, oxygen rushing from your lungs and you press your head into your hands. You scrape your fingers back through your scalp, so harsh you're sure you've drawn blood, and as you pull your hand from the stands you see crimson under your nails.

"I know he still meant a lot to you," she says, "I know you still loved him."

You say nothing. You don't know what you could possibly say.

"I never expected this," you finally mutter, reluctant to say the words out loud, "I always thought that..."

You leave the words unspoken, and they lie in the air like a fog. _I always thought there was time._

"I know," you hear the choke in her voice, "I'm just sorry I couldn't be there."

In the thirty years that passed Cheryl had suffered a number of health problems. Travelling had become somewhat of an impossibility and, though you knew she wanted to be with you, there was no way she could make it in time. In some ways you were glad, because it meant that her presence wouldn't draw attention to you. You knew you wouldn't be welcome and you didn't want the awkwardness of having to be introduced to Steven's widower.

You wondered if Ryan knew anything about you. You wanted to ask Cheryl, but any time you tried she told you that she didn't discuss you with either Ste or his lover. Cheryl was the person who convinced you to go talk to Ste, if that's what you wanted, but when you told her he was happy and that he'd moved on, she did not argue with your decision to leave him alone. Perhaps she thought it was for the best too.

Now that decision haunts you.

If you knew that would be the last time you would ever lay eyes on him, you would have never left. You would have stayed forever, if he'd let you, and simply watched his life from the shadows of his driveway like an old, black and white movie. Even that would've been enough.

"Did he ever talk about me, Chez?" You ask, because now more than ever you need to know.

"Brendan, don't-"

"Please..." You whisper, and you hate begging, but it comes out a desperate plea, "I have to know."

"...No," she mutters, "he never talked about you."

You let out a sigh and scrub a hand down your face. You hold your breath, let it go, then breathe deep again. You can't contain yourself, feel like your going slowly insane, but when she starts talking again you freeze,

"I don't think he wanted to talk about you," she says, "maybe it brought back too many memories."

You nod, though she can't see you, but you understand. You didn't talk about him either, not much anyway. It was too hard to talk about him and not be with him. You had to though, didn't you? You had to stay away. You couldn't go in and screw up his life, not again. You had to let him go and live his life.

"I never stopped thinking about him, Chez, not once." you mumble, and the words almost catch in your throat, but you manage to make them sound clear, "I'm just glad he was happy."

You can hear her crying on the phone, but you try to block it out. You close your eyes.

"He was, love," she says, and it sounds like a promise, "you have nothing to regret."

You hang up the phone, unable to listen anymore. You hope his life felt more happy and fulfilled without you than yours felt without him. You hope that, even though you craved for him every night, that he barely thought of you once. You hope so, because knowing that he did would only make you regret your decision to leave him. Cheryl told you that you had nothing to regret, but was she right? Did you make the right choice?

There was only one way to find out...

xoxox

You pull up outside the familiar, picture-perfect house that Steven called his home.

It looks exactly the same as it did before, only they've painted the outside a faded yellow and there's a loose vine of flowers growing up the side. It's even more like a fairytale than you remember. As you step out of your car onto the stone driveway, you feel out of place against the scenery, dressed in shabby jeans and a black leather jacket that's worn, faded and decades old. Everything about you contrasts with its perfection.

You walk up to the front door and summon up all your strength to knock. You wonder if it's too soon, considering the funeral was only a week ago, but you became sick of pacing your apartment floor and wasting away days in front of the television. Your mind felt like it was decaying, like there was nothing left to live for, and you knew that the only way to stop your racing thoughts was to do this. To drive up to this house, stand on this doorstep and confront the man who Steven loved after you. The man who took your place in his heart.

You shuffle on the step, then quickly knock on the door without a second thought. You feel your heart beating through your chest, almost hammering through your white shirt, but you can't take your eyes from the door as it slowly creaks open to reveal a set of icy blue, beautiful eyes peering out from behind a curtain of blonde curls.

Leah...

"Hello," she says, voice light and airy.

She's a grown woman now, but she still has that baby face you remember. Her eyes are sparkling and innocent, almost identical to when you saw her that one brief moment years ago, at this very same house. You stand, mouth open, then quickly try to compose yourself when you realize that you're responsible for the awkward silence that has now descended between you.

It kills you to see no recognition in her eyes.

"Hello," you grunt, and it comes out harsher than you intended, "I-I'm here to...is your...I mean, does Ryan Tate live here?"

"Yes," she says, a soft smile gracing her features, "he's in the study at the moment. Who will I tell him is asking?"

She's so polite and well-spoken, you think, and for a moment you wonder where the Hell she picked that up from. Certainly not from her Dad.

"Brendan Brady," you say, eyes flicking over her face for the tiniest glint of memory, but she simply smiles.

"OK, just wait here and I'll get him."

You watch as she walks away, her womanly curves the subject of many men's dreams, but all you can think of is pummelling any man who would dare taint her. Nobody is good enough. Nobody will ever be.

You look over at a shelf in the middle of the grand hallway, placed beside an ornate staircase that leads to the second floor. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling and you can't help but raise an eyebrow at the sight. You know for a fact that Steven didn't pick it. You walk over to the shelf and see a picture placed on it. It's of Steven, on his own, smiling in the garden with his hands on his hips. He looks happy and young; it brings a small smile to your face. The first time you've smiled in weeks.

When you hear Leah approaching, you put the picture back.

"You can head back there now if you want, it's just down the hall and to the door on your left," she smiles sadly, "he's been working all day...trying to distract himself, y'know?"

You nod, but you can't bring yourself to say anything. It's all too fresh. You simply nod in thanks and make your way down the hallway, as per her instructions. When you reach the door, you feel your heart begin to thrum. You knock, and after a moment you hear a deep voice resonate from the other side,

"Come in."

You slowly open the door and walk in. His eyes are locked onto yours as you step into the room, and there's a look of steel within his gaze that immediately quashes any ideas you may have had about him not knowing you. His expression tells you that he knows very well who you are, and already he doesn't like you.

"Brendan," he nods, a curt smile in place.

"Hello," you reply, and you feel the tick in your cheek return. The one you thought you'd managed to get rid of in prison, "Ryan, isn't it?"

"I think you know my name," he smiles bitterly, "I certainly know who you are. Please, have a seat."

You immediately realize where Leah has established her well-spoken manner from. This guy is smooth, all business, and articulate to the point of being irritating. You wonder what he's heard about you, what Steven has told him while he was alive, and it makes your heart thud. What business was it of this guy to know about your past? To know anything about you and Steven.

You slowly step forward, eyeing him up, then take a seat in front of his desk. You didn't come here for a fight, but this guy's tone has immediately put you on edge. The therapy you received in prison can only sustain you for so long, you've learnt that in the years since you were released. Sometimes you can still feel the anger stepping in, begging to take over. You try to push it down.

You watch Ryan as he leans back and runs his hands through his grey-streaked hair. You can tell he still tries to keep in shape, but his years show on the laughter lines in the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"I should have expected you to visit," he muses, "I've been expecting it for a while now."

"That so?" You breathe heavily, worked up already, "Sorry I'm late."

You wince at the truth behind those words. You are late, much too late...and you truly are sorry.

"I saw you at the funeral," he quickly says, throwing you off guard.

"Ye did?" You can't help the surprise in your voice.

"Yes," he nods, "at the back. Trying to hide from everyone, but I saw you."

You wonder how he even knew what you looked like, but then you remember the media storm that hit the papers when you were sentenced for your crimes. One look in an internet search engine and your picture would be top of the results page. _Brendan Brady- serial killer. _

"It shocked me," he says, "when Ste told me who his ex was. I almost contemplated ending things with him..."

"Then you were an idiot," you hiss, unable to stop yourself.

"Yeah," he nods, agreeing completely, "I was. Not that it mattered, I couldn't end things with him even if I wanted to. In the end I didn't, of course, that much is probably obvious to you."

You grunt. You have nothing to say. He looks you up and down and you want to spit in his curious eyes. However, you know your anger shouldn't be placed on him...it should be placed on yourself.

"Listen," you grunt, "whatever you think you know about me and Steven, you don't. You don't know shit."

"I know you loved him," he says, and you can't argue so you remain silent, "I know you still do, otherwise you wouldn't be here...in my house...looking for answers as to whether or not he still loved you."

You stare at him, eyes icy, and you wonder if he can sense the shock his words have just caused you. You look away, and you know he sees it.

"I'm a psychiatrist, Mr. Brady..." he says.

"Good for you," you reply, smiling bitterly.

"I read people for a living," he continues, ignoring your hostile retort, "that's why you're here, isn't it? For answers."

You say nothing. He's so right that it embarrasses you, but your pride won't admit to it. After a moment, he continues talking.

"When you pulled up at the house that day...I thought it was all over," he shakes his head, as if the memory pains him, "I thought I was about to lose everything."

You look up, eyes wide, and you immediately know what he's referring to.

"I felt sorry for you, really. Seeing us all together...it must have been hard."

You want to sneer at his pity.

"I only wanted to see Steven," you say, "to talk to him."

"So why did you leave?" He asks.

"Because..." you pause for a moment, looking him directly in the eye, "I wanted to know I did the right thing... leaving him alone."

"What makes you think it was your choice?" He asks, lip curling at your audacity, "Maybe he wanted to be left alone."

"...is that what he told you?" You ask.

"He told me you were bad news," he says, "he said I was good for him. He said he loved me."

"That so?" You mutter, playing with his mind, manipulating him like you did with all Steven's past lovers. You feel sorry for this guy, you really do, because he doesn't know what you're capable of when it comes to someone you... "Love is a funny thing, isn't it?"

"What?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Love," you mutter, "it's rare. Hardly anybody feels it."

A glimpse from a memory long gone flits through your mind. You remember that girl in Hollyoaks, blonde hair and too much eye make-up, and you ranted to her about this very subject. You remember your words, but you don't remember her name.

"I did," he whispers, voice pained, "I felt it."

"Did he feel it for you, though?" You ask, purposefully toying with his mind. You haven't done this in years, this game of cat-and-mouse that you thrived on once-upon-a-time. You want him to suffer. You want the doubt to creep into his mind and waste him away into nothing, so much is your anguish, "Do you honestly think you could ever compete with me?"

You can see the doubt in his eyes, darting back and forth across your face, and you can tell that he thinks you're a monster.

"He would never have left me for you," he says, "I'm sure of it."

You lean forward in your seat, so close you can see the panic in his eyes,

"You don't sound sure," you whisper, looking him up and down.

"I am," you see his throat constrict as he eyes his phone, ready to leap forward and call emergency services if necessary, "do you not think he'd have tried to look for you if he wanted you?"

Your face drops and suddenly the game of cat-and-mouse has taken a dangerous turn. Your heart is beating in your chest and you can't help the twinge of pain his words have caused you, but you never let him know. You immediately lean back and regain composure, creaking your neck,

"Did he know I was there?" You ask quickly, changing the subject and looking deeply into his eyes, "You knew I was there, but did he?"

"I never saw you," he mutters, "I only knew it was you because after that day he wouldn't talk to me...he wouldn't tell me what was wrong," you can see his eyes fade back into the memory, "I tried to ask him what was the matter, what he'd seen that terrified him so much, but he said nothing...that's how I knew it was you."

You fall back in your seat and shake your head, barely enough for him to see. Your heart drops. He knew it was you, and still he didn't seek you out. You look him up and down, but you don't say a word. You haven't the strength or the energy. You came here to have one question answered, and you intend to ask it. You sum up all your strength, and finally you say,

"Just...tell me one thing..." You watch as his face twists from disdain to curiosity, "was he happy?"

He looks at you, dark brown eyes peering out behind black lashes. He seems suspicious of the question, then he slowly leans forward and says,

"Yes...he was happy."

You nod slowly and your eyes flicker on the floor, taking in the words. He was happy...

You stand, about to leave, but he stops you with a few short words,

"He used to talk about you...sometimes," he says, and it's as if the look in your eyes has urged him to throw you a bone, "if that helps."

You stand in silence, looking at him with dark, hooded eyes. You turn around to face him, ready to hear what he has to say. For a moment you see the conflict in his eyes as he stares at you, until he finally begins to speak,

"I appreciate what you did by staying away," he says, and it's so low you almost don't hear it, but you turn and you see his eyes peering up at you with childlike vulnerability.

"What?"

He stands, looking at you and trying to sum up as much dignity as he can as he rounds his desk to approach you. His chest is out, shoulders back, head held high as he says,

"I appreciate it..." he repeats, "I appreciate that on the day you came here, you turned around and drove away...I do."

You look at him, wonder what his game is, and you want to walk away but something urges you to respond. You can't help yourself from asking,

"Why?"

"He told me he thought he knew what love was when he was with you," he says, eyes scanning your face for a reaction, but you give him nothing even though it stings, "before he met me. He said I made him happier than anyone."

"Good for you," you hiss, and you want to leave because you don't want him to have the satisfaction of seeing the devastation of those words.

You turn to leave, but he grabs your arm. You pull it away.

"No, wait!" He says, "I'm not finished."

He looks at you and something in his eyes tells you he's wanted this moment with you for a long time. That he has wanted to stand here, face to face, and tell you exactly what has been on his mind all these years.

This is the moment when you begin to doubt whether you made the right decision to drive away that day...

"You know," he says, "I always wondered what you'd be like...in person, I mean."

"Hmph," you grunt, "yeah?"

"Yeah," he nods, ignoring your sardonic tone, "I always wondered what it was about you that had him so..."

You urge him to finish the sentence, but he simply looks at you with sharp, cutting eyes then turns away.

"You said he was happy," you remind him.

"He was," he says, "but sometimes I wondered..."

"What?" You ask, and suddenly this feels like a lifeline, "Wondered what?"

He looks at you, lip curled, and it's as if he's disgusted by your eagerness. Your need to hear that his husband loved you, even just a little.

"Wondered if it was enough," he replies.

You both stand in silence, waiting for the other to say something. You feel something tight in your chest as you remember his face, young and fresh and looking up at you with full blue eyes. A swell of emotion spills over you, heavy and unexpected, and you look up to the sky and ask God why he is torturing you like this. Luckily you don't have to speak, because he breaks the silence first,

"So thank you," he whispers, "thank you for walking away that day...because if you didn't..."

"Stop," you mumble, "don't say anything...just...don't."

He looks at you, then slowly nods and steps away. You watch, hypnotised, as he walks over to a locked cabinet and pulls out a set of keys from his pocket. He unlocks it, opens the top drawer, and pulls out a wooden box.

You watch in confusion as he steps over to you, leather shoes scuffing the floor, and hands you the plain, squared item.

"What's this?" You ask, raising one eyebrow and holding it up with your hand, as if tainted.

"I wasn't going to give it to you," he said, "but I think Ste would've wanted..."

He trails off, lump killing off the words in his throat. It feels surreal to you, standing here with him, like two World's colliding. You put your other hand on the box and hold on to it tightly, fingers turning white on the edges.

"He used to take it out sometimes," he said, "when he...when he died, I couldn't help myself, so I took the key from one of his pockets and I looked inside..." he closes his eyes, fighting something back, then breathes out, "I think he would've wanted you to have it."

You shake your head, heart thudding in your chest, then you lower your eyebrows in confusion. Why is he doing this? What reason does he have to give you this, of all people? The man his husband used to love? Whatever lay within this box, you're sure Steven hadn't looked at it in years. Why would he possibly want you to have it?

"Why are you doing this?" You ask, voice groggy.

He breathes in deeply, summoning up all the dignity within him, then looks you in the eye and says,

"Like I said...it's what Steven would have wanted," he says, "regardless of what I want."

You shake your head, but before you can respond he turns away from you and heads back towards his desk. As he sits down, he casts one final look over to you before grabbing a fountain-tipped pen in his hand and continuing to write.

"Goodbye Mr. Brady," he says.

You shake your head and step towards the door, and the final words you hear as you exit is the soft timbre of his voice as he tells you _please, don't come back._

You don't plan to.

You quickly step down the hallway, footsteps frantic as you pad along the wooden floorboards towards the front door. You grasp the box in your hands, fingers tight around it, and your heart is thudding gently against your ribs as you finally reach the door. All you want to do is get to the car so you can look inside and inhale the content. You want to smell him, whatever is left, and the animalistic urge is turning you primal. So much so that when you hear a soft voice utter your name behind you, you can't help yourself from spinning around and baring your teeth in frustration,

"_What?" _You hiss.

You are amazed to find yourself looking into the eyes of that little blonde angel. You try to compose yourself, but you can feel your cheeks tinge with embarrassment. You really are an animal.

"Mr. Brady?" She says, and you can see a glimmer of fear in her eyes, "I'm sorry, I just wanted to..."

"No, no, Leah darlin' you have nothing to apologize for..." You hate yourself, "honestly, I'm sorry."

She looks at you, eyes sparkling, and you swallow because in her gaze you see something that wasn't there when she opened the door to you...

_Recognition. _

"How do you know my name?" She asks.

"I just..." you pause for a moment, "I knew you and Lucas when you were both kids. Grown up a lot since, eh?"

She smiles softly, eyes bright and fixed intently upon you. You fix your gaze to the floor, unable to maintain eye contact with her.

"I just wanted to know..." she pauses, "I wanted to know how you knew my Father."

You feel the breath escape you. How do you even respond to that?

"We were friends," you finally say, when the silence becomes too much, "a long time ago."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." she flushes, embarrassed "...you look familiar."

You say nothing, but you feel something blossoming in your chest. It feels like hope.

"I've seen you before," she squints, as if trying to remember, "My dad...he used to have photographs of us when we were kids...me and Lucas, I mean," she fidgets, and you imagine her to be one of those typically dorky kids in school, with glasses and frizzy hair, who eventually turned into a swan, "you were in them."

Your breath hitches in your throat. He kept photos of you.

"We were friends, like I said," you say, "but...we lost touch, after a while."

"Were you there?" She asks, "At his funeral?"

You can't help yourself, you close your eyes...

"Yes," you grunt, because if you speak the words out loud you fear breaking down. You don't want her to see your vulnerability.

She nods, but says nothing more. After a moment you hear Ryan's voice calling her from down the hallway, and she jumps at the sound.

"I better go," you say, smiling half-heartedly. You hope she doesn't see the sadness, but the sympathy in her eyes tells you otherwise.

"Bye Mr. Brady," she smiles softly.

Without another word, you smile and walk out the door towards the car.

Once inside, you put the box on the dashboard and look at it with transfixed eyes. It's started raining, and the soft patter on the windows creates a cocoon of moisture around the car. You feel isolated. You slowly turn on the ignition and make your way back home.

Xoxox

You've been staring at the box for three hours.

You can't bring yourself to open it, even though you want nothing more than to do so. You're afraid of what you might find inside.

Finally, the waiting becomes to much, and with a shaky breath you lean forward and bring the box onto your knee. You slip the key into the lock, feel the click, then slowly slide it to the right. It sticks for a moment, and for one panicked instant you think it might be jammed, but after a bit of careful manoeuvring the box springs open to reveal the contents.

It takes a moment for your eyes to focus on the inside, because your heart is beating so hard in your chest it's causing your vision to blur. You reach in with one hand and pick up some photographs, and for a moment you wonder why Ryan wanted to give these to you. There are some pictures of Leah and Lucas, one of Amy and a couple of some strangers from Hollyoaks that you barely remember. People who meant something to Steven, but nothing to you. You sigh, then reach in and grab another handful. However, as you begin to scan through the next batch, you feel your heart begin to swell.

These pictures were older, from years ago, before you went to prison and life as you knew it was over. There was one of Steven, smiling, eyes sparkling at the camera and so full of life that it was as if you could reach into the photograph and touch him. You smile back. It feels like old times. The rest are all photos of him, of times when you would have both been together, but there are none of you. You wonder if he burned them, or threw them out. You wonder if Ryan only thought you would want these as reminders of Steven, even if they were only photographs.

You smile sadly, then throw the pictures back into the box. You feel like crying, but you don't, because if you don't hold yourself together then you won't be able to carry on.

It's days before you look at the box again, pulling out the photos to scan back on memories from what seemed a lifetime ago. You smile at some, think back on times you shared, then others make you feel like life is not worth going on without him. It's only on the third day that you notice something odd at the bottom of the box.

You look in, brow furrowed, and notice that the wooden panelling at the bottom has come loose. Underneath you notice a peek of white, shimmering out, and you gently reach in and pull the panel from it's place.

_A trick bottom. _

When you look at what's underneath, you inhale sharply.

With timid fingers you pull out the photographs glinting at you from the bottom of the box. There aren't many, you count five in total, and they're tattered and worn as if they'd been handled many times. You feel your eyes prick as you gaze at them.

All of them are of you.

One of you on that Christmas you both shared together, one of you and the kids, one of you on your own, one candid and one of you both together. You stare at the picture of you both and you feel a sob fall from your mouth. You've never heard a sound like it before. You recognise it as the sound of you falling apart.

In the photograph, it's dark, and he's smiling at you with a glint in his eyes. You're looking back at him through the corner of your eye, as if suspicious, and you remember when it was taken. You thought he was going to try and do something overly sentimental like kiss you. You told him you hated it when people posted photos of themselves kissing, and he called you a _spoil sport. _You can hear the words in your ears even now.

After what feels like an eternity of looking at his face, the perfect curves of his mouth and eyes and lips, you slowly set them aside and close your eyes. When you open them, you spot something else at the bottom of the box. You reach in and pull out an envelope, white and sealed, never opened. It has your name on it in capital letters. _ N. _

Only in this moment do you realize that Steven wanted you to have this box. That's why his husband gave it to you. You wonder if perhaps he left it to you in his will. The thought makes you ache.

Your hands are shaking now, and you're barely able to concentrate. They feel like they're moving on their own as you slowly peel the seal and rip it open, frantically tearing out the paper inside that appears to be ancient and crinkled with time.

One final, single photograph falls from the fold. You scan it carefully, and your blood rushes to your face as you see a picture of you and Steven, taken on the pier in Dublin right before you left. Steven insisted that he liked the view, so you had to take him back so that he could get one final picture. He'd taken you off guard in that moment, stepping over to you and slipping his arm over your shoulder to snap a picture of you both. He looked good. You looked terrible.

Looking at it is more painful than anything.

Your fingers fumble as you try to unfold the page. When you finally open it you feel your shoulders slump as you fall back into the soft bulge of the sofa. Your hands fall into your lap and your eyes roll to the ceiling as you hold your hands to your face. When you close your eyes, the words on the page are seared into the blackness.

_If not in this life, then in the next..._


End file.
